Her Arms
by pchan1912
Summary: Sometimes Heero has bad dreams. Just a little oneshot about comforting the 'Perfect Soldier' when he's having a not so perfect moment. Set post-EW


_Disclaimer: I do not own GW. But then, you already knew that.  
_

**Her Arms**

If he had to count up all the times he deemed himself worthy of the way she cared for him, he would never get past zero. Not by a long shot. Still, he couldn't help the comfort he garnered from the love he felt he didn't deserve. He needed it. Needed her. Like he'd never needed anything in his whole, short, desolate life. Well, desolate, until now. And it scared him; needing something.

If he had to count the number of times he felt guilty for letting her hold him like she was doing now, he would be counting for a very, very long time. She was slight and fragile compared to him, but in her arms he felt a strength greater than any force in this Earth Sphere or the next. Delicate hands tangled in his hair and soothed his troubled thoughts. It was no wonder that her hands were the hands that carried something so fragile as Peace day after day.

Here he was, inadequate, undeserving, soiled by war…broken…seeking solace from her touch. And there she was, all radiance and optimism and hope and goodness and wonder, and she's holding him to her, murmuring into his hair. Telling him that she's here. Don't worry. Shh. She's here. She's here… She champions him and he'll never understand why. He clutches tighter, letting her hold him without protest and, for the moment, he's never felt safer.

The nightmares are bad. Images of imagined horrors dancing though his sleeping mind, taunting him with promises of death and destruction…The memories are worse. The night draws them out of hiding to torment his sleep. He thrashes, he knows. He often wakes up in his own bed to tangled sheets and sore muscles. But the screams…She's never told him about the screams. They are filled with enough sorrow to break any heart. They bring her to tears each time she hears one.

She usually manages to keep his monsters at bay just by being near. But on occasion, even when he stays with her, the Dove of Peace is no match for the scars on the soul of this soldier. He wakes in her arms; head nestled to her chest, as if he were a small child. She kisses his forehead and runs gentle hands over his back, tenderly chasing the demons away, banishing them back to the dark corners they crawled out of. He wraps his arms around her, selfishly taking every ounce of comfort she offers.

He opens his mouth to tell her that it is nothing. That he is fine and then some, really; because he is the strong one. That he doesn't need her—or anyone—for this. He opens his mouth, but it is dry and no words come out. It's as if his voice simply won't permit him to tell such a lie to this breathtaking woman rocking him. Instead, something closer to a sob escapes his throat and he feels the hot tears, long unshed, streaking roughly down his cheeks, scorching his face with their heat.

The moonlight seeps through her silky curtains, pooling haphazardly around the room. The floor, the bed, her skin; everything is dusted in silver. She continues to coddle him, wiping at stray tears with her slender fingers. A part of him knows that he should be ashamed of himself, that he should run and take all his brokenness with him. But the look in her eyes, silently begging him to stay, holds him to her. When he meets that gaze, the world slows for the briefest of moments. Ocean meets sky and he finds no judgment there. Just as he knew he wouldn't. Her eyes hold only worry and understanding and…love.

She doesn't speak, just goes on comforting, pouring her strength into him, healing the cracks in his heart. And he doesn't speak, because words fail him, now more than usual. He heaves a sigh, deep with the sounds of life and troubles someone his age should have never seen. As he curls further into her sweet embrace, she softly croons into his ear, voice like the clearest of bells. A lullaby from her childhood, barely above a whisper, reaches his mind and he is at peace again, in her arms.

They know that the morning light will bring with it the same composure and resolve that is always steeled about him. He will once again be her strength in a chaotic world, one threatening to rip itself apart with each passing day. _She _will be the one seeking support in the solidarity of his presence and his unwavering determination. But just for tonight, he is hers to hold. He drifts quietly back into slumber, his breath hot on her neck. His weight on her is solid and secure and, as a cloud drifts by blocking out the silvery puddles of moonlight, she tightens her hold on him the slightest bit.

Her lullaby fades; reaching the end of the final verse, the room is quiet and still, save for the steady breathing from the man in her arms. Sweeping away a shock of chestnut hair from his forehead, she plants a kiss there, bidding him peaceful dreams and promising to be there if they are anything but. The man stirs ever so slightly, the sun-kissed skin of his jaw brushing lightly against the hollow of her throat. Relena has always believed that it was _he _that kept her safe from the war.

Heero knows better.

_****_

A/N: So? It was a little more angsty than I had originally planned, but I feel like our man Heero is to blame. Boy's got a lot of demons in there. ;) Anyway, first posted fic anywhere, so be gentle. Thanks for reading :)


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